House ghosts are usually harmless beings. They bring good luck to those who live with them. I remember two children who slept in one small room with their mother, sisters, brothers, and a ghost. They sold herrings[47] in the streets of Dublin and didn’t mind the ghost much because they knew they would always sell their fish easily as long as they sleep in the “haunted” room.
I know some people who can see ghosts in the villages of western Ireland. The stories from Connaught[48] are different from those in Leinster. The spirits in H– have a serious and dark manner. They appear to announce someone’s death, fulfill obligations[49], seek revenge[50] for wrongs, and even pay their debts[51]. It’s demons, not ghosts, that transform into white cats or black dogs. The tales from the west have a strange charm. The people who share these stories live in wild and beautiful landscapes. They are farmers and workers who sometimes go fishing. The ghosts here have a good sense of humor. In one western town, spirits are so energetic that if someone who doesn’t believe in them dares to sleep in a haunted house, they throw him out of the window with his bed. In the villages nearby, these creatures take on the most unusual looks. For example, a dead old gentleman steals cabbage from his own garden looking like a large rabbit. And a wicked sea captain stayed inside the plaster of a cottage wall for years, making scary noises in the form of a snipe[52].
“DUST HAS CLOSED HELEN’S EYE”
I recently visited a small group of houses called Ballylee in County Galway, Ireland. It’s not big enough to be called a village, but its name is well-known in the west of Ireland. There is an old square castle called Ballylee, where a farmer and his wife live. There’s also a cottage where their daughter and son-in-law[53] live, and a small mill with an old miller. Last year, I went there a few times to talk to the miller about Biddy Early, a wise woman who lived in Clare years ago. I wanted to know about her saying, “There is a cure for all evil between the two mill-wheels of Ballylee,”. I visited again this summer, and I plan to go back before autumn because Mary Hynes, a beautiful woman whose name is still remembered, died there sixty years ago. An old man guided me away from the mill and the castle, down a narrow path covered in brambles and sloe bushes[54]. I talked to him about a poem in Irish that Raftery[55], a famous poet, wrote about her.
I first heard about the poem from an old woman who lives about two miles up the river. She remembers Raftery and Mary Hynes. She said, “I have never seen anyone as beautiful as she was, and I never will until I die.” She told me that Raftery was nearly blind and had no other way of making a living than going around and reciting poems.
She sang the poem to me and a friend in Irish, and every word was clear and expressive. My friend and I have translated parts of it, but some of it was translated by the local people.
Going to Mass by the will of God,
The day came wet and the wind rose;
I met Mary Hynes at the cross of Kiltartan,
And I fell in love with her then and there.
I spoke to her kind and mannerly,
As by report was her own way;
And she said, “Raftery, my mind is easy,
You may come today to Ballylee.”
When I heard her offer I did not linger,
When her talk went to my heart my heart rose.
We had only to go across the three fields,
We had daylight with us to Ballylee.
The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure,
She had fair hair, and she sitting beside me;
And she said, “Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes,
There is a strong cellar in Ballylee.”
Oh star of light and Oh sun in harvest,
Oh amber[56] hair, Oh my share of the world,
Will you come with me on Sunday
Till we agree together before all the people?
I would not grudge[57] you a song every Sunday evening,
Punch on the table, or wine if you would drink it,
But, Oh King of Glory, dry the roads before me,
Till I find the way to Ballylee.
There is sweet air on the side of the hill
When you are looking down upon Ballylee;
When you are walking in the valley picking nuts
and blackberries,
There is music of the birds in it and music of the Sidhe.
What is the worth of greatness till you have the light
Of the flower of the branch that is by your side?
There is no god to deny it or to try and hide it,
She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.
There was no part of Ireland I did not travel,
From the rivers to the tops of the mountains,
To the edge of Lough Greine[58] whose mouth is hidden,
And I saw no beauty but was behind hers.
Her hair was shining, and her brows were shining too;
Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet.
She is the pride, and I give her the branch,
She is the shining flower of Ballylee.
It is Mary Hynes, this calm and easy woman,
Has beauty in her mind and in her face.
If a hundred clerks were gathered together,
They could not write down a half of her ways.
An old weaver[59] says, “Mary Hynes was the most beautiful person ever. My mother used to tell me about her. She was always dressed in white and visited every hurling match. Eleven men asked her to be their wife in one day, but she said “no” to all of them. One night, some men were sitting together, drinking and talking about her. One of them decided to go to Ballylee and see her. However, he fell into Cloon Bog and was found dead the next morning. Mary died of fever before the famine.” An old woman from Derrybrien[60] recalls Mary. She says, “No one has ever been as beautiful as Mary. Her skin was so white that it looked blue, and she had two little blushes on her cheeks.” Another wrinkled woman living near Ballylee says, “I often saw Mary Hynes, and she was really beautiful. She had two curls on each cheek that were silver-colored. I also saw Mary Molloy, who drowned in the river, and Mary Guthrie from Ardrahan[61], but Mary Hynes was the most beautiful of them. She had seen too much of the world. She was a kind person. One day, I was walking through a field, feeling tired, and the Poisin Glegeal (the shining flower) appeared and gave me a